


The Morning After

by Ill_Ratte



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Gavins tits are mentioned, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Pre-Canon, Trans Gavin Reed, alcohol mention tw, but perhaps w hints it won’t go quite like canon has ;)), soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ill_Ratte/pseuds/Ill_Ratte
Summary: The morning after a mistake with Hank, Gavin must gather his belongings and his pride so he can scurry out of Hank’s house and life before Hank wakes up. But as Gavin thinks on their relationship, he starts to doubt what is the right move.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Gavin Reed
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

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> Twitter: @Ill_Ratte  
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Gavin would have groaned when he felt the now-lukewarm slick oozing out of him onto his thighs, because he really couldn’t afford another UTI with his insurance. But Hank was right next to him, sound asleep, and in that moment, the thought of waking him was unfathomably worse than something a little cranberry juice could fix. 

Gavin hadn’t meant to stay the night. He hadn’t meant to fuck Hank, either, but he was lonely and horny and of course Hank was, too. But at least, like the intrusive thoughts that so often punctured Gavin’s brain, the idea to leave as soon as Hank had fallen asleep swirled inside of him in time with Hank’s cock. 

But Gavin was a filthy masochist, and Hank was so warm and safe when he slept, not like when he was awake, and certainly not like the cold, empty bed waiting for Gavin at his own apartment. And “five more minutes” in Hank’s arms had drifted to until the next morning. 

They were kind of alike, in a way, Gavin thought as he searched around for his shirt where Hank had tossed it haphazardly amongst the kicked-off bedsheets. Hank, a fallen hero, more into booze than his now-ex-wife, and Gavin, a beat-cop lost in the shadow of his half-brother. Two dead-ends washed up in the same precinct, cursed to bump into each other endlessly. 

The image made Gavin chuckle at first, if only because Hank sleeping did look like Hank dead, until he realized how true it would be. In the best case scenario, Hank would be too drunk to look at him, maybe even to think of him after. Gavin hoped it would be the case. 

As his shirt slid over his back, Gavin grimaced. He could still smell his sweat on it, caked in from when Hank had him pinned to the bed, large hands squeezing and palpating his tits. Gavin hadn’t wanted him to stop then, had writhed and yowled under him like he was a bitch in heat. But now, queasiness pulled at his stomach as he tried in vain to smooth down his chest. He didn’t like people seeing that part of him. Again, he hoped Hank wouldn’t mention it at work. 

What would work even be like? He thought. Hank didn’t look at him much, except for the times when he did, when pale blue eyes burned into Gavin. He was drunk then. The good Hank, Hero Hank, had never looked at him like that, even when Gavin slobbered after him in his footsteps. But to drunk Hank, Hank with the gaping wound that he couldn’t even begin to address, Gavin was the shiny bauble and he was the unattended toddler. 

Gavin figured this Hank was the only one he deserved. Gavin was a freak, after all, and he had masturbated to the thought of a married man for far too long. Just desserts was him getting the attention of the leftover husk. But that didn’t mean Gavin hated it any less. 

Gavin found his boxers wedged beneath his pillow. How the fuck they got there, he wasn’t sure; the last memory of them on was Hank slowly sliding them down his thighs, teasing Gavin for how pink and pretty his cunt was, which was “fitting for such a pillow princess”. Gavin had hated the words, hated the wya they made him blush and squirm, and he hated it even more as his legs clamped together at the memory. He pulled the boxers on, trying not to remember how warm Hank’s breath was as it fanned out over his clit. 

Every moment he stayed, his eyes drifted back to Hank. His arms looked so empty, and his brow had creased since Gavin had gotten up, like he had noticed his absence. Gavin needed to leave. 

But his jeans were another matter. He could hardly remember where he had kicked them off, or if he had even kicked them off in the bedroom. His socks and shoes were downstairs, by the door where Hank kept them. That little rule was perhaps the one thing in Hank’s household that hadn’t fallen apart. 

He would find the jeans later, because time was ticking and the last thing he needed was having to face Hank. It hurt enough having to sneak around his house; Gavin knew he couldn’t bear being kicked out directly. 

The stairs creaked under his feet as he descended, the layer of dust gathered on them hardly providing any padding. A few photos, relics of before, remained up, of Hank and Cole, Hank in uniform, Hank and his wife at some picnic together, Cole playing with puppy Sumo. Gavin tried not to look at them; it felt too much like intruding. It was Hank’s life when he was happy. Gavin wasn’t a part of that. 

His shoes and socks still rested by the door where Hank had placed them, lined meticulously with Hank’s own. The socks were grimy, the combination of how all day-old socks were and the slick rain that had greeted them when they left the bar last night. 

It had all started with the rain. Gavin’s jacket had a hood, and the bus would have come in 10 minutes, but Drunk Hank was still a gentleman and had offered to take him home in his self-driving car. At least, that was his cover story. The fact that they would both be going home to empty beds had left Gavin standing in front of Hank’s house, Hank pulling him inside. The socks squelched sickly as he put them on, and Gavin grit his teeth through the sensation. 

He had bent down like this to take his shoes off, he remembered. And so soft, like he was imagining it, and maybe he was, Hank’s hand had run through his hair. Getting the moisture out, maybe, because rain had seeped through his hood. 

His jacket was still soaked too, and he folded it up and placed it under his arm. Hank liked that jacket on him, he remembered. Hero Hank had been the only one to comment when he got it, worn it as one of his first baby steps into masculinity. The realization fizzed through him, and Gavin clutched the jacket closer. 

His jeans weren’t in the rest of the rooms. The only thing disturbing the kitchen were the boxes and boxes of take-out spilling from the garbage, and Gavin regretted even looking. It was like everything was suspended in molasses, the air still thick with trauma. It almost reminded him of his parent’s house the few times he had returned home for holidays. Tension so thick he could scream. 

The stairs didn’t creak nearly as much on his way back up, and for that Gavin was grateful. He shouldered open the door to Hank’s room, scanning the mess of covers that lead up to bright blue jeans, folded in the center of Hank’s bed. 

Hank was up, eyes clouded with sleep, and his hands resting on his knees. He looked forlorn. 

“I’m sorry!” The words came out before Gavin could think about them. “I meant to be gone before you woke up, I swear!”

Hank blinked, rubbing his eyes and staring at Gavin. “What do you mean, kid?” 

“I- I’m not gonna stick around and bother you like some dumbass kid, ok? I know I’m not wanted, and we don’t have to talk about this again.” Gavin was shaking. He hated it. He regretted coming here, and he regretted Hank seeing him, and he regretted the way Hank’s stupid dumb compliment about his jacket had made him smile like an idiot when nothing else could. 

Hank stood up, walking towards him, and Gavin took a step back until Hank’s arms wrapped around him. Then, his face was in the man’s chest, in the tangle of hair and sweat and the scent of sex. He expected to smell last night’s booze on the breath that fanned over his face. Instead, he smelled saltwater. 

“Did you really think I’d kick you out, baby boy?” Hank sounded hurt as he crooned into his ear, one hand threading through Gavin’s hair.

“I- I- “ Gavin didn’t know what to say. Gavin was dirty and hurt, and so was Hank, and of course Hank wouldn’t want to look into a funhouse mirror of himself. So Gavin started crying. 

The softest hands cupped his cheeks, softer than even Hero Hank could have been, urging Gavin to look upwards. Gavin did so, squinting away tears as he met crinkled blue eyes. “This house is too empty for you to be alone here.” He murmured, kissing Gavin’s lips softly. “So why don’t I draw you a bath? And… we can talk. About everything. Is that alright?” 

They had work in less than an hour. And if Gavin said nothing, if he disentangled himself from Hank now, he could just slip back into the comforting certainty of Before. Instead, Gavin closed the gap between them again. “It’s perfect.”


End file.
